


And would you take away my hopes and dreams?

by kittenmesut



Category: Football RPF
Genre: BUT DID YOU SEE MARIO WITH MARCO'S JERSEY, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Injury Recovery, M/M, World Cup, a lot of missing, during and after, idk its my first time ever, mentions of schweinski-muellez-drummels if you squint really hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:44:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenmesut/pseuds/kittenmesut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco missed Brazil, misses playing but mostly misses Mario.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This WC just left me with a lot of feelings, idk I had to do something. Special thanks to my Prinzessin, she inspired it, helped me and she's just generally awesome. This one's for you babe. Title's from Ed Sheeran's One. The guy just gave me a lot of vibes. English is not my first language, so please be kind. Love you all x

He wasn’t brooding, okay? He wasn’t. He was just upset that his team, his friends, his _family_ for God’s sake, made it to the World Cup final without him. Which made him even more upset, because who’s that horrible person who doesn’t want to see his National Team win the most important competition out there? Marco Reus, injured BVB’s young star, apparently. Okay so maybe he was brooding, but he had all the reasons to, alright? He should have been with his teammates in Brazil right now, celebrating the greatest victory of all time – 7-1 against Brazil itself? That’s like _woah_ – getting drunk with his boyfrie—no. He couldn’t afford to think about such things. Because for once, you don’t get drunk 5 days before the game of your life. That’s just stupid and Jogi would have kicked his ass so hard he’d have had trouble walking, let alone playing. And also because, well, Mario was not his boyfriend. Not anymore. When he left for Munich he took what they had with him. They decided to remain friends, of course they did. Marco couldn’t just forget about him right away. And they still had to see each other when BVB played Bayern and with the National Team. So they were friends, the lump in his throat at the word be damned. That’s why, it was 3 in the morning in Dortmund and he was still up texting his “friend”, despite the fact that he had to see his physio in less than 6 hours.

**“Can you belieeeeveeeeeee it????? 7 goals marco!!! 7!!!!!!!!”**

Mario had always been a fan of punctuation. Hardcore punctuation.

**“I actually thought Andrè was going to die of happiness at some point ahah”**

He was happy for the blonde, he deserved to show the world how much he was worth.

**“U should have seen Miro in the changing-room :DDD HE CRIED!!!!!!”**

Well, he would have done the same to be honest. Breaking Ronaldo’s record in his very country against his very team, that’s something you don’t even dream of accomplish in your career. And Miro did it. With those elegance and humility only he had.

**“I bet he did, tell him I congratulate :)”**

**“You would have scored too, you know. If you were here tonight. I would have made you.”**

Yeah but he was here in Dortmund, Germany. Very very far from South America.

**“Yeah, I know. Now go celebrate with the lads :)”**

**“I miss you xxxx”**

He did, too. A lot. But he locked that part of him somewhere very deep because he couldn’t let that boy with the golden heart ruin him even more. He shut off the phone and went to sleep.

 

He woke up next morning – or, to be accurate, 4 hours and a half later – with the worst headache of his brief life. He went to the kitchen to made some stupid orange juice Mario always said was good for their health. Stupid Mario. Pouring part of the liquid in a glass, he thought of all the little insignificant habits he caught from the younger boy. Like showering and _then_ brushing his teeth, not the other way around as he used to do before Mario made his way into his life and changed it upside down. ( _“It just makes more sense if you clean your whole body and only then your teeth!”_ Stupid stupid Mario.) He drank the damn thing and went to the bathroom with a change of clothes, which was just sweatpants and a jumper he wasn’t totally sure was his own. But that was not the reason he picked it, alright? It was comfy and big on his shoulders and waist and it was July but Dortmund was still very cold in the morning, okay? Those were the only reasons. If it still smelled like that bloody D &G cologne, nobody had to know about that. After he had styled his hair in his signature quiff – he was Marco Reus after all – and laced his trainers not without feeling a bit of pain in his ankle, he went to his car. The headache was still there. Fucking Mario and his fucking useless juice.

He was in the car, outside Ilkay’s flat, because he couldn’t go find out about his return on the pitch alone. Ilkay was having a bad period, on his way back from that injury that made him miss the World Cup too (and also get the most awesome round belly a 23-year-old could ever have. The team would never made him forget it). He was the only company he could bare these days, they just hang at Marco’s house because it was bigger and quieter, sharing a couple of beers, watching the World Cup and pretending to be a hundred per cent happy for their teammates. And mostly watching Prison Break reruns. Ilkay knew exactly how he felt and that’s why he was bringing him to the physio. It should have been good news, but better bring somebody just in case. He remembered it all too well, how it had happened, the pain he had felt at the ankle. But above all, he remembered falling down on the pitch, touching it and thinking: “This is it. I’m not playing the World Cup”. He remembered being helped up, and watching the concerned faces of his teammates, all thinking the same thing, all knowing right away they were going to Brazil without him. He remembered Mario’s attempt to call him the days after, when he didn’t want to speak to anybody else but his mother. How he refused every single call and let every single message unanswered. He had felt deprived of his dream, of the only thing that kept him going after Mario left him for Bayern the year before. He had felt hopeless. He wanted to get back on the pitch. He needed it like oxygen. He needed to feel the rush of adrenaline that hit him before every match, the banters with his teammates in the changing-room, the yells of the mister when they slacked during trainings. That’s why Ilkay had to fucking get his ass in the car before he had a breakdown. A minute later he felt the passenger door opening and Ilkay I-don’t-shave-because-I’m-cool Gϋndoğan smiled at him. “Are you ready Reus?” “I was about to come up and kick your balls all the way towards my car, you asshole!” The other boy laughed, “You’re definitely ready.”

September. He could do September. It was just two months away. He didn’t care if getting back on the field in September meant missing the Supercup match against Bayern in August. He was coming back and he just wanted to go home and call his mother and tell her the good news. He dropped Ilkay home with the promise of seeing him on Sunday night, to watch the World Cup final together, and headed back home. Once inside, he dropped the keys on the counter (another habit, a bad one, he picked up from his ex-whatever) and threw himself on the big leather couch. He dialed his mother’s number and he had to wait approximately 0.3 seconds before she answered the call. “So??” she practically screamed in his ear and he smiled, “September mom,” he told her and he could hear the sigh of relief his mom made at the other end of the phone, “It’s great news, isn’t it, _lyubov moya_?” “Yeah mom, it is.” And it really was, for once. “When are you telling Mario?” “Mom.” “Marco,” she sounded upset, like every time they talked about him, “He’ll read it on the internet tomorrow.” “But I’m sure he wants to hear it from you.” Only his mother could make him feel guilty about Mario, honestly. “Okay, I’ll text him right away. Happy?” “Very. Have a good day, love. Bye.” And she hung up like this, without giving him the time to say it right back, like she always did. He decided to make some lunch first, mostly to clear his head, and found himself cooking that pasta with tomato sauce and olive oil Mario Gomez made for them, when he went to Thomas’ place with _his_ Mario. Ah the irony. The pasta wasn’t as good looking as Mario Gomez’s, but it tasted like heaven and Marco thought that the months spent cooking for Mario, who couldn’t even make pancakes to save his life, were finally paying off. Which was, well, an unexpected turn-up. He even decided to clear the dishes, just to buy some more time. He was pathetic and he knew it. He was avoiding Mario because he didn’t know how to take the fact the Mario, indeed, missed him. He was having the time of his life and still missed him. After a year of radio silence and drunk calls and glances stolen on the pitch, he said he missed him. And Marco missed him right back, had missed him every single day, every single night since he left and he didn’t know how to handle it anymore. How to handle the fact that he still felt taken. That he couldn’t even fathom the idea of meeting new people because, who the hell was he fooling, he belonged to Mario and him only. And if he said it back, if he called Mario to tell him that he fucking missed him too, like he had to restrain himself from doing every other night, what would ever change? Munich would still be a long way from Dortmund and Mario would still have left BVB, _him_ , for his career. Without saying “I’m sorry”. So Marco didn’t. He opened the message app on his iPhone and deleted the whole thread under Mario’s name (which was still “Sunny” with that yellow heart emoji Mario always attached to his I love you’s). He then opened a new one and wrote “I’ll be ready to kick your red and blue asses from September!! xx”, fished Bastian’s name out of his contacts and hit “Send”. Screw Mario. Screw his mom, too.

 

The rest of the week passed in a haze. On Sunday morning he was gloomier than ever. He had woken up and gotten out of bed just to crash on the couch without eating nor showering. He was about to call Ilkay to tell him he had forgotten he had other plans for tonight’s match, when the very guy sent him a text that read “I’m outside your door Reus!!! :-)”. He was just about to put the iPhone back on the small table in front of him, having chosen to ignore the text, when another one followed: “Oh and I brought bagels and coffee. I know u love me ;-P” Which might have been actually true because he was starving and free food was always welcome. Well food in general was always welcome. He got up unwillingly and went to open the door. He was welcomed by the bright smile of Ilkay and the awesome smell of coffee. “You look like somebody who hasn’t slept in days.” “Good morning,” he grumpily said while Ilkay made his way into the flat, “You actually didn’t, did you? Did you stay up late texting your wonder boy every night?”, Ilkay smirked, eyeing him from the couch and making him almost spit out his coffee. Almost. He didn’t like wasting free food. “I don’t even know who you’re talking about.” He blatantly lied. Marco didn’t know how, but every single person in his life had thought he was screwing Mario or something at some point. Which. Okay it was true, but they had been subtle about it when they still played together. Well, they were attached to the hips and arrived to training together every morning but they were just best friends alright? Not so subtle then. But it had been a year and Ilkay couldn’t still believe it. “Yeah Marco, as if I didn’t have to watch you go from I’m-shitting-rainbows happy to The-sun-just-disappeared-forever sad,” and Marco really didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the accuracy of what his friend just said. He chose the former. “You’re ridiculous,” “And you’re a fool if you think I didn’t notice how you changed Marco. I’m your friend. I see that you’re not okay and I’m having none of your bullshit.” Marco sighed heavily. He just really wanted to spend the day sulking and just being generally sad. Why he could never have nice things was beyond him. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Ilkay must have seen the defeated look in his eyes because he nodded and said “I know you don’t. But you will, after I kick your ass at FIFA.” “Oh you wish,” he smiled. A game of FIFA with a friend was always the answer. They were professional players, after all.

He lost spectacularly. Apparently choosing your own team on FIFA wasn’t a good idea, because he had to watch his game-self comforted by his game-teammates after being horribly defeated by, in this very order, Chelsea (André never had to know about this), Schalke 04 (seriously Marco?) and Barcelona (which was at least expected). Mario had tried to teach him how to play back when he was still his Mario. ( _“You can’t be a pro and not being good at FIFA! It’s in the job description!” “Don’t tell Kloppo then, or he’ll fire me or something.”_ ) But he had failed because Marco was still shit at it. Stupid fucking game and stupid fucking Mario for buying it. After two solid minutes of Ilkay’s special winning dance, which consisted of throwing his arms in the air and wobbling them – he claimed Mats and Erik taught him, some bullshit about being in the club of the Cool BVB Lads. Why was he not in this club was the real mystery here because, let’s face it, he was cooler than all of them together – they decided to cook something. The something here being the leftover pasta and chicken his mom brought over the day before. They were young and lazy, sue them. Marco fished a couple of beers out of his almost empty fridge and threw one at Ilkay. “You’re sulking again,” the younger said, “No, I’m not.” Marco answered, because really, he wasn’t. He was just anxious for the match. He had texted a bit with André and Mesut to know how they were coping and somehow both had told him to text Mario before the match. Which he was already planning on doing, thank you very much. He was going to text every single one of them, actually. He said Ilkay as much and the other lad just looked sad. “I wish I was there, you know,” he said fidgeting with the hem of his jumper, “not even to play, really. I just wish I was there with them to run on the pitch if we win or to let them cry on my shoulders if we lose, you know.” And Marco knew, he had spent the last couple of days jumping from one flight website to another to find the best solution from Dortmund to Rio, only to be remembered by the pain in his leg that he couldn’t, actually, go anywhere. “I know Ilk. I’m not even angry anymore that I didn’t get to play what should have been _my_ World Cup, but. I wish I could be with them right now. I wish I could be with him mostly. He used to come here the day before a big match, he acted all big guy but he was always scared shitless,” Marco chuckled, remembering the ‘can I come overs’ and the ‘pleases’ whispered through the phone. Ilkay gestured for him to go on, and why the hell not? He had never really talked about all of this with anyone and Ilkay was a friend, a damn good one who was just trying to help. So he took a sip of beer and went on, “He gets all nervous and he just needs somebody to pet his hair and remind him he’s one of the best players alive. Because he tends to forget about it a lot. And I just. That was my job and. I don’t know Ilk. I miss him way too much for my own good.” He finished, and it was like some weight was lifted from his shoulders, because he felt lighter. Ilkay was looking at him with an expression that resembled pity, but it wasn’t quite that. “You know you should tell him,” Marco snorted but the other went on “you should tell him because you love him and that should be enough.” “But he doesn’t love me back.” Ilkay looked almost angry now, frustrated, “So what? Who cares. You should do this because you need to move on, whether with him or without him. You have to do this for yourself Marco, not for Mario. You need to start having a bit of respect for yourself. Promise me you’ll think about it.” Marco looked up and couldn’t hold back the single tear that escaped him, “When did you become so wise Ilk?” “I’ve always been wise, you idiot” Ilkay snorted and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard, “think about it, okay Wood?” “Don’t call me that, nobody does it anymore,” he answered, but nodded anyway and Ilkay looked satisfied. “Now, let’s go watch that thing with the hot blonde chick!” Marco was confused, “Which one buddy, you need to be a bit more specific?” “The badass with the dragons? C’mon the one who married the big muscular guy that looks like me?” Marco started laughing and threw himself on the couch, “Firstly, her name is Daenerys Stormborn, and secondly you look nothing like Khal Drogo”, Ilkay put his feet on Marco’s lap and looked at him dead in the eyes, “You know nothing, Marco Reus.”

They were both up, Ilkay was cursing from the kitchen, after saying they needed more beer to deal with the overtime. Ninety minutes had passed and both teams had yet to score. Germany was playing good, the guys were nervous, that much was obvious, but they were winning over ball possess. They were giving Argentina’s defense line a hard time and Manuel was absolutely flawless. Man of the match, in his opinion. Mario had replaced Miro during the second half (and if he cried on his friend’s shoulder when Klose exited the field and his career in the National Team accompanied by a standing ovation, that was going to remain between him and Ilkay). He could see Mario was focused, he could see he wanted to be seen by Thomas and Mesut. They were all giving their 100%, they were just facing a good opponent. For a brief moment he wished he had sent him more than just a ‘go get ‘em tiger!!’ because that was just lame and impersonal and not motivating at all. But he was a weak man. And he wasn’t even entirely sure Mario would have had the opportunity to read the text, so you know. Ilkay entered the room with a beer and a glass of what looked like vodka and coke. He handed Marco the beer and started sipping his drink, “This shit tastes like shit, shit.” “Why are you drinking it then?” Marco asked, repositioning himself on the couch just to stand up a second later as he saw the teams back on the field and ready to go. “I needed something stronger, Marco what if we lose”, his voice shrill. “We can’t lose okay? They’ll figure something out, Thomas will work one of his magic, I don’t know but we’re not losing, I’m telling you.” But his trembling hands weren’t so sure. The first 15 minutes passed and nothing happened. He had to take off his jumper because the air in the living room was getting way to heavy and hot. Ilkay was curled on the floor, rocking his glass still half full in his lap and mumbling ‘c’mon guys’ like a chant. The board marked 112’. Marco was praying for a goal at the very last minute of the overtime, because he couldn’t even bear the idea of going through the penalties without exploding. He thought of his brain and guts smeared on the walls of his living room and on the leather of his couch and no, somebody had to fucking score. And _he_ did. In that very moment Mario Gӧtze, his Mario, scored the goal that made his National Team _World Champion_. Marco felt something heavy landing on him, Ilkay had practically jumped on his back, the drink abandoned somewhere. “HE DID IT MARCO, WE DID IT!” Ilkay screamed in his ear. And when he saw Rizzoli blowing the whistle, he realised they actually did it. He realised they were actually World Champion. He realised Mario kept the promise he made when he called him before hopping on the plane for Rio. He didn’t answer that phone call but he heard the message in the voice mail that said, with a sure tone, ‘I’m doing this for you, Marco Reus.’

Ilkay started crying when Phil lifted the Cup and they jumped and screamed, the paint Ilkay insisted to put on their cheeks with the colours of their flag smeared everywhere on their faces. They didn’t pay much attention to the TV, Marco was too busy performing that stupid dance of the Cool BVB Lads club. Ilkay took a video of the moment, murmuring something like “I’ll show this to Mats and Erik when they get back, because you deserve to be honorary member of the club” and laughing like a fool. They focused back in the TV just in time to see Bastian and Lukas fake-kissing and taking selfies together, like the idiots they were. He remembered having something like that with Mario in the past. And it was just like that, in that moment, that he saw him, with the new jersey with the four (four!!! Fuck you Italy!) stars and another one thrown on his shoulder, dancing with the others in circle around the cup. He was happy and always, always beautiful. And then somebody asked him to take a picture alone with this other jersey Marco had thought was the one from the match. But then he saw him opening it and posing with a proud bright smile and it was Marco’s. It was Marco’s number 21 jersey. Mario brought his jersey with him on the pitch. Mario was right there, telling him ‘I did it for you Marco’ and Marco loved him more than ever. Ilkay shoved him on the shoulder to make sure he was still breathing and then whispered in his right ear, “Are you going to tell him now?” And Marco didn’t have enough strength to scream the ‘YES’ that was flashing through his brain but he hugged Ilkay, crying and yes. Yes. He was ready to get his boy back.


	2. Chapter 2

Marco was going to kill Ilkay. He woke up on the floor of his living room, his head positively about to split in two. No joking. Why did he let the younger guy convince him to play a game of “Take a Shot If” the night before was a mystery. He should have known better, especially when the whole thing escalated from ‘Take a shot if you’ve ever seen your parents fuck’ – he didn’t drink, thank fucking God – to ‘Take a shot if you’ve ever given a blowjob to a teammate younger than you with a fetish for horrible selfies and smoothies and with tits bigger than his girlfriend’s’. He was so going to kill Ilkay. When said guy would have woken up from his spot on the kitchen counter, that was. Marco got up, his back aching, and well. Germany was World Champion. If the stains of beer and vodka and dry paint on his couch – his beloved now soon-to-be-replaced leather couch – were something to go with. And Mario. _His_ Mario who brought _his_ jersey with him on the pitch. Now that. He had to do something about it. He promised Ilkay and, mostly, he promised himself. He wanted to because _he_ needed to. Whether it resulted in getting back Mario or not, it didn’t even matter to him anymore. It was about coming clean to himself, really. The worst that could have happened? Remaining Mario-less, moving on with his life, getting back on track and just full-on being Marco again. He could survive. He looked around, trying to locate his phone in the mess that was his living-room, finding it discarded under Ilkay’s jersey (which had a “DICKHEAD” written on it with a sharpie. Marco did not remember how that had happened in the slightest). The clock said 11:24. He went through the texts from his friends, his sisters, even one from Kloppo that read ‘We Did IT!!11 :DD)))D)’, reserving the answers for later. He needed to take something for his headache and to shower. Mostly to shower. He smelled like a horde of Vikings who had had a party in a liquor store. Marco entered the kitchen, looking fondly – and a little bit horrified at the amount of naked skin – in the general direction of the thing that was sleeping on his counter. He almost found Ilkay cute. But he still wanted to kill him, so he swallowed his affection with the painkiller. And because he was an awesome friend, Marco left a glass of water and another couple of pills on the counter next to his friend, writing ‘morning gundrogon’ (he gave himself a pat on the shoulder for the pun) on a post-it and sticking it to Ilkay’s forehead. His phone buzzed in his hand, signalling a new message from his sister Melanie: ‘Mario with your jersey is on every newspaper!!!!!! Cute xx’. She had attached the picture. Mario half smiling and showing the _Reus 21_ to the Maracanã and the world to see. And to Marco. He opened the Twitter App, ignored the hundreds of notifications – he wasn’t really a fan of social networks – uploaded the picture and wrote:

‘Congratulations to the whole Team! Your Dream has Come true! And Thanks to my bro for your gesture:) Believe’

It was a start.

 

Marco wanted to call Mario. He really did. Only he was staring at the phone in his hands, unable to move a muscle. Once when he was just a little kid – 8 at most – and playing football in the garden outside his old house, he broke his mom’s favourite vase that was on the windowsill. It had been an accident, but his mom had always told him not to play in the garden and to mind the vases and he was so upset, he felt like he had broken her trust. He remembered being paralyzed with anxiety when his mom had gotten home from work that night, because he didn’t know how to tell her that he was sorry about the vase. Marco didn’t know _how_ to tell things. He knew a lot of words, different words, beautiful words, sharp words. But he didn’t know how to combine them together to make sentences out of them, not when it mattered anyway. If he could have shown Mario his thoughts, like a book or a movie, where he just had to press ‘play’ or open the first page, that would have been perfect. Easy. Marco liked easy. He was a chill guy, after all. But he had to use words instead. How, when his throat felt tighter at the very thought of doing it? He would have found out soon enough, because he had accidentally pressed the call button. Which. Okay. Breath in, breath out. Or he could just shut off the phone and pretend that the call nev-- “Hello?” Silence. He couldn’t even open his mouth. “Marco? Is that you?” Mario sounded nervous and surprised. And his voice was rough like he had been asleep. “Hey, hello, yes, it’s me I’m sorry I didn’t mean to – I just. I just wanted to know how, like what are -” he sighed, “- how are you Mario?” “I’m, well, I’m really fine thanks? Did you really call me to ask me that?” And why Mario couldn’t humor him. Why did he have to be _him_ and ask such questions? He swallowed hard, hoping for the ground to open and swallow him whole. “Yes? What’s wrong with it? Can’t I just call a friend to ask him how he’s been?” He tried to laugh it off. “Marco. You stopped talking to me after the semi-final.” “I sent you a good luck message before Argentina. Didn’t you get it?” Marco knew he was being childish. But this was so fucking hard. “Honestly? ‘Go get ‘em tiger’? Even Kloppo sent me a more affectionate text.” He sounded disappointed now, and Marco felt the urge to scream or bang his head against a wall, “But you did get them! I brought you luck,” he laughed, but it came out more like a strangled cry. “Listen Marco, I don’t know why you called me but I’m thankful you did because I was getting crazy. I really mis—“ “Yeah look, I need to go. Yvonne is here. I’m glad you’re fine.” “But Marco—“ He felt hot tears running down his face and soaking his shirt, “Thank you, you know. For the jersey thing. I appreciated it. A lot.” And he shut off the phone and threw it on his bed. His knees gave up a moment later and he sunk on the floor, his hands on his face. He couldn’t let him finish. Marco couldn’t let Mario say it. That he missed him. Because he didn’t have the words to say it back. They all went away when Marco heard _his_ voice and all the memories, all the pain, and the missing hit him right in the face. He had tried. He couldn’t do it, but he had fucking tried.

 

Marco was finishing packing. For Ibiza. Yes Ibiza. Roman was set to pick him up at his place in a hour, so he was just actually throwing random pieces of clothing in the suitcase on his bed. He had spent the day after _The Call That Must Not Be Named_ (Ilkay and his passion for naming things was out of control) sulking and frowning at things and people, mostly at the pictures of Robert with that awful red and blue jersey on. Fucking Bayern and fucking Lewy, honestly. Until Roman had shot him a text about a trip to Ibiza with a couple of friends. He had thought to gently refuse the offer and keep on brooding and just being generally upset towards life. But truth was, he could use a bit of relax. And fun, too. Such a long time had passed since the last time he went out with friends for the sake of it, stumbling out of restaurants half drunk on expensive wine and getting into a cab to head to the nearest disco. Marco didn’t even like dancing. He was quite the singer, actually. Had liked singing since he was a kid, when his sisters made him sing _Wannabe_ to entertain their occasional guests. But those nights he danced, eyes avoiding Mario because he wasn’t sure he could restrain himself from stupid things, like kissing the shit out of that sweaty face. Marco needed to get his mind off things, off Mario of course. So he had told Roman to pick him up as soon as possible, because what could have possibly gone wrong?

 

Mario was there. Of fucking course Mario was on a yacht in Ibiza and of fucking course he was there with Ann-Kathrin and apparently André and a bunch of other friends, according to Roman who was telling him the news. “We could hang out with them tonight! I’m sure Mario has a lot of things to tell you! You haven’t seen him since we left for Brazil, right?” He was so genuinely excited Marco wanted to throw up the breakfast he was still eating, “Yeah that’d be great, but I think I’ll pass this one Ro, I’m still feeling like shit from last night’s drinking,” he laughed, trying to be convincing. “C’mon, it’ll be fun! You totally have to hear the story about the gigantic spider that infested André and Mario’s room! C’mon!” The thing was he didn’t want to face _him_. He didn’t want to give explanations he didn’t feel ready to give, he didn’t want to have all his friends realize something had happened between the two and question him about it. Or worse, believe he was upset with Mario just because the younger one had had the opportunity to win his country the World Cup. But Roman was looking at him with hope and excitement and he had been so good to him the whole trip, never talking too much about Brazil, never asking how he felt about it and just leaving him be. He owed him. “Okay, let’s do this, then!” Roman smiled and pumped his fist in the air in a small victory dance, “You know what? I’m not gonna tell them you’re here, too. It’ll be a surprise, you just wait!” Marco was so screwed.

The first person he saw when he got on the yacht was Ann-Kathrin, stunningly beautiful as always in a coral red caftan. She was on the deck, sipping on a drink, and when she noticed him her eyes went wide but she came to hug him nonetheless, “Marco? I didn’t know you were here too?” and he could sense the slight annoyance in her voice, even though she was smiling sweetly. “That’s the whole point of a surprise!” Roman answered for him, “you look gorgeous Ann. I still wonder how Mario got to charm someone like you!” he went on, kissing the back of her hand in a old fashion. Always the gentleman. “Oh shut up! The boys are still getting ready, they’ll be here in a minute. I’m sure they’ll love the surprise!” she laughed, and it sounded ice cold. Marco didn’t know what to say. They had never liked each other, that much was obvious. She had always hated the fact that Mario used to spent all his free time with Marco and Marco had never liked the fact that she got to be with him in a way he could never hope to get. No matter how many times Mario had assured him she was just a safety net, just something to keep prying eyes away from them, no matter how many times he said he didn’t love her the way he loved _him_. Marco never understood why he couldn’t just get rid of her. Why he wasn’t enough. And above all why he took her to Munich with him when he left, if she was just a ‘safety net’. So yes, Marco didn’t know what to say, because she was the one on holiday with her boyfriend, not him. Just as he was going on the railing to calm down the pounding of his heart, she took him by the arm to stop him, “Sorry Marco, can I talk to you for a moment?” And that was, well, unexpected. They had never really talked alone, “Uhm, yes?” She lead him towards the deckchairs and gestured for him to sit, but she kept standing. “I don’t know what you’re doing here but he has just won the World Cup, he’s happy and relaxed. Don’t ruin it, like you always do when he talks to you. If you really love him or whatever, don’t ruin it.” And she turned on her heels and walked away, leaving him there to wonder what the hell had just happened. Which. What the fuck? How could he ruin Mario? What the hell was going on? What did she know? Marco was utterly confused, he needed something strong to drink. He got up from the deckchair, trying to smooth his wrinkled linen blue pants. “Marco.” And he felt himself freezing on the spot at the sound of that voice, _his_ voice. Mario was there, behind him. And he couldn’t move, not when every fibre of his being was screaming ‘Run!’ but his heart was whispering ‘Stay’. He heard the footsteps coming closer. “Marco.” The voice unsure, trembling. And closer. “Marco.” Closer. “Marco.” Almost a murmur. “Marco. Marco. Marco.” A chant breathed on the back of his neck. Marco shivered. He felt Mario’s arms circling his waist, could practically see him standing a bit on his tiptoes. He couldn’t help but relax into those tanned arms, into his smell that felt foreign and home at the same time. Into _him_. “Turn around,” Mario said, his voice trembling. “No.” Because no was the only word he remember in that moment. “Please.” And Marco could feel Mario was on the verge of crying, his breathing no more steady, his hands gripping his shirt. And Marco immediately covered them with his own, moving his thumbs in a soothing way he knew worked with him. And it hit him, the sudden realisation that he _knew_ Mario. That he knew every insignificant detail of his life, every habit, every little thing about him. Nobody knew Mario better than Marco did. Why was he so worried about words? He just needed to look into those eyes for them to come back. Easily. So he turned slowly, with his eyes closed, inhaling that cologne he had always loved. He felt Mario holding his breath, his hand dropping at his sides. Marco sighed, praying his knees wouldn’t give in, and opened his eyes. And Mario was there and he was still _his_ Mario. With his little brown eyes that many people found common but took Marco’s breath away every time he looked into them. With his round cheeks, red and shining from the tears he had shed, but beautiful nonetheless. And with those swollen lips, chewed on and bruised, he hadn’t kissed in a long long time. Their foreheads touched and sparkles must have flown because Marco felt like being electrocuted. “Hi Wonderboy,” he whispered, smiling. “Don’t think you’re the first one who calls me that since the end of the Cup,” Mario laughed, and Marco had missed that laugh so much. “But I am the only one that matters, right?” he joked, with his lopsided smile Mario loved. “Aren’t you always?” The younger boy answered, his face serious, reaching to stroke his cheek with a hand, “Am I?” And Marco felt himself tensing, knowing that that was it, the moment of truth. Mario must have sensed the same, because he dropped his hand and the magic broke. “Look Marco, we need to talk. Like proper talk. Just you and me.” Marco took a step back, all the air suddenly gone from his lungs. He could finally see him whole, he was in a pair of black shorts and had a white tank top on it, his tan showing. And he was handsome, his hair lighter from the sun of Ibiza. And Marco felt the need to punch him in the face, because seriously Mario? Did he really have to make his heart race like a 17-year-old teenager with a crush? Like the first time they had played together? He had scored that time and Mario had given him a thumbs up from the sideline, grinning, and Marco was so so in love. Still in love. Always in love. And he had to tell him, like he had promised Ilkay to. “Yes, we do. But let’s get back to the party now, I’m sure they’re wondering what are we up to. Also, I want to kick André’s ass. They told me he’s gotten quite full of himself,” they started heading towards the end of the yacht, the back of their hands almost touching, “That’s what happens when you score two to Brazil, you know!” Mario laughed. “I don’t.” The laugh died down.

“And that’s the story of how I killed a dangerous monster and saved the life of the man who make us win the World Cup! You owe me big time buddy!” Marco didn’t believe a single world of that ridiculous story about the giant red spider with twelve legs (seriously André?) but he laughed anyway, clapping his hand in a overly exaggerated applause. If he was also a bit tipsy, nobody had to know about this. “Yeah, you’re right. Thank you, my friend,” Mario answered, raising his third (not that Marco was watching his every move. He wasn’t, okay?) glass of Long Island of the night, “this toast is for André Schürrle, I wouldn’t be a hero today without you!” And they all drank a bit, except for Roman who was half asleep on his deckchair and just grunted at the whole thing. Marco was just about to go wake him up and leave, since he was tired too, when Ann-Kathrin stood up from her position on Mario’s knees – where she had been since the beginning of the fucking dinner – and said, with her glass still in hand: “Since we’re toasting, this one is for my boyfriend, the hero of Germany, but mostly of my heart. I love you babe.” She bent and kissed him long on the mouth, touching his face with her manicured hand. Which, _no_. She had been attached to Mario’s neck all night, peppering his face with loud kisses every now and then and looking at Marco’s direction every fucking time. Was she trying to make a point? Well, she was succeeding. Because everywhere Marco looked he couldn’t see anything else but all the things he missed. All the things taken away from him. And it felt like being injured all over again, like falling on that pitch and knowing right away he had _lost_. “You know, I have a toast to make as well. This one is for the goal you scored, Mario,” he felt the boiling rage making his way from his stomach through his mouth, “thank God you won us the final, or Guardiola would have given you back to us for free this year.” And Mario’s face fell. He watched him go from confusion to hurt to anger in the long minute that followed. He got up and put Ann-Kathrin behind him, “The fuck was that for?” he almost shouted. And it hurt Marco to see that he had done this. He had put that look on Mario’s face. But there was no going back now. He couldn’t physically stop. André raised from his seat and grabbed Marco’s arm, squeezing so hard he almost hissed in pain, “What? Borussia Dortmund is not enough under the spotlight for you, Messi?” He spit out the words like venom, wanting to hurt, wanting him to feel like he had felt for a year. He went on, “I don’t remember you having a bad time in Dortmund, right? Or maybe Ann-Kathrin didn’t like the weather? That’s why you left?” And Marco looked at Mario with a challenging expression, daring him to answer the question right in front of everyone. He wanted Marco to talk? Well Marco was talking now. “You guys are drunk and we should all go and sleep this off, alright? I’m sure you all don’t mean for this to happen.” He hadn’t noticed Roman, now fully awake, standing by his side. But the two kept looking at each other, fiercely. None of them wanting to give up first. “You should go fuck yourself. It’s not my fault you injured your fucking ankle, you jealous prick.” And that hurt Marco more than everything else, the fact that Mario thought he was just jealous. That he had probably never realised that Marco had missed _him_ every day more and a World Cup couldn’t compare a tiny bit. “Fuck this. I don’t wanna see you again.” And he freed himself from André’s grip and run away. Without looking back.

 

“Hey Ibiza boy, I bet you’re having a great time with your loverbo—“ “Ilkay? Can you come pick me up at the airport?” “What? Where are you?” “In Dortmund. Please, I don’t want to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry, but I'm just going with the flow and the fact that they were together in Ibiza just-- I had to do something, okay??? There's going to be at least another part. Special mentions to my Prinzessin who is just the best thing (even tho she's a horrible beta) and to my Ilablue who forced me to write while she was at mine. And to you all, thank you for reading this shit. Love you xx


	3. Chapter 3

“Just take it easy kid.” Kloppo said, patting him on his back. He was smiling, but Marco could see the worry in his eyes, “Yes, sir. I’ll just do a couple of laps.” He answered, eyes surveying the field. He couldn’t wait to step on it and feel _himself_ again. “If you start feeling pain in your ankle, get your ass immediately out of the pitch, are we clear?” He was always Jürgen Klopp after all. Marco laughed, but nodded anyway, because he knew he could risk a lot. He was already skipping the first few games of the season – and not to mention the fact that he was skipping the Supercup against Bayern Monaco and only God knew how much he was dying to tear Manuel Neuer’s net apart – he wanted to get back as soon as possible. He approached the sideline, making sure to enter the pitch with his left foot first, and started running rather slowly. It felt good. He heard some of his teammates – Nuri and Pierre mostly, the idiots – whistle and catcall in his direction, because they were a bunch of dorks. But he loved his dorks. He watched them jump and run and kick free shots, taking a close look to the new Italian guy, Immobile, who had quite the beautiful hairstyle (yes, Marco judged people from their hairstyles, okay?). He remembered his first training with the team, his desire to impress Klopp and to show the guys he was worth the opportunity they were giving him. He was still thankful. Borussia Dortmund was his home, his safe place, he couldn’t ask for a better team. It had always been more than enough for _him_. That day Marco noticed an absence too, Robert’s absence. You could always hear Lewy on the pitch, whether he was pulling stupid pranks (with Mario, too, when he was still there) or shouting encouraging words when training got hard. He wondered how Munich was treating him, if he missed Dortmund. He had promised to call once he adjusted himself, but Marco never received any call. Munich made people forget, apparently.

He literally stabbed the lasagne as soon as his mom put it on the table. He was positively starving. “How was training today, _dorogoy_?” He tried to answer through a mouthful, but it came out more like a choked nonsense, so she gestured for him to swallow the bite first. He helped himself with a glass of water and wiped his mouth with a napkin, “Nothing special, _mama_. I mostly watched, you know.” He shrugged, and she caressed his cheek, a habit she had always had but never bothered him much. “When are you going to start the actual work?” she went on, eyeing him carefully, “In a couple of weeks, three at most, Kloppo says.” Marco smiled, feeling at peace with himself for the first time since he run away from Ibiza. His mom smiled in return and she was about to say something else when the doorbell interrupted her. “I’ll take it,” Marco said and, standing up, he kissed his mother’s forehead and went through the passage to open the door. When he opened it, he was faced with the opposite wall. Frowning, he was about to close the door and curse the goddamn kids of that neighbourhood, when a tiny voice coming from downward squealed, “Unkie Woo!” And Marco didn’t even realise he was already grinning like a maniac, looking down to see the happy round face of his two-year-old nephew Nico, his favourite person in the whole world. He bended on one knee and opened his arms wide, shouting “Who is my champion???”, and waited for the little giggling boy to fly into his arms. He remained there, holding Nico to his chest, while his sister Yvonne made his way into the apartment with a fond look on her face. He lulled him and kissed his feathery hair for five solid minutes, until he felt a tiny hand resting on his cheek calling for his attention, and when he looked down Marco saw that Nico had a Germany jersey on, with a visible number 19 across his chest. The little child must have seen the unsettled look on his uncle’s face because his doe-like eyes widened and he said, frowning: “I am your champion now, unkie Woo?” “Always, love. Always.” And Marco buried his face in his nephew’s hair.

Marco decided to spend the rest of the week before leaving with the team at his parents’ home. He tried not to notice the fact that every member of his family was doing their best to keep him busy: his father engaged him in intense marathons of Breaking Bad every night after dinner (using the dvd collection Mario had given him as a Christmas gift two years before, but never mind) and his mom forced him to cook dinner and do the most random housework, claiming that he was a grown man now but apparently forgetting that he had been living on his own since he was 20. Even Yvonne had started to drop Nico by almost every day, but he was more than glad to be stuck babysitting the amusing kid. He had thought he was doing a good job of hiding his heartache, but there went his certainty. That Thursday in particular, Marco found himself sitting cross-legged on the floor of his old bedroom, now a guestroom, strumming on his father’s old acoustic guitar, since Kevin had been teaching him a few chords, just the basics. Nico was sprawled on a blanket, fidgeting with his toys but mostly watching his uncle play with interest. Marco was trying to get that new Ed Sheeran’s song ‘One’ right, because it was his favourite from the album (he had quite the crush on the guy if he was to be honest, he may or may not had a thing for red hair..) and he had loved it since the first time he had listened to it, couldn’t stop singing it really. There were a lot of great songs in that album, but that one felt like it had been written for him, like Ed Sheeran had been kind enough to give him the words he lacked of. All he wanted to tell Mario since the day he left him was in that song, so Marco was learning it, chord by chord, note by note. Because having the words made him feel powerful. A few moment later, he heard a muffled yawn coming from the floor and he got up to lift Nico who had just fallen asleep, probably lulled by his poor attempt to play guitar. The little child instantly curled himself on his uncle’s chest, who kissed him on the nose and went to put him gently on the bed, careful not to wake him. “You will be a great father one day,” his mom said from the door, folding and unfolding the dish-cloth in her hands, “I am not even a good,” Marco paused, “..friend, mom. I am not even a good friend.” His mom looked at him with a sad expression on her face. “That’s nonsense, sweetheart. You take great care of the people you love,” she said, nudging her head in the direction of the little child, now fast asleep. Marco smiled at his nephew, but didn’t answer his mother. She was right, sort of. He had tried his best to take care of Mario back when they were still a _thing_. He was three years younger than him and Marco had always considered his duty to make sure Mario was always safe, happy and good. He had spoiled him rotten, surprising him with gifts and unexpected gestures because he loved watching the look on Mario’s face go from disbelief to pure joy to love, at last. He loved the ‘i love you’s’ and ‘thank you’s’ whispered between kisses, he loved making him feel special. But it had never been enough. “Not enough, mom,” he answered, finally, looking out the window into the cloudy sky of Dortmund. “Give him a chance, Marco. Give him the opportunity to talk. And not when you’re both drunk and angry,” she added, when she noticed Marco was about to reply. “I am not good at talking, mom.” She hugged him and he rested his chin on her shoulder, like he did when he was a child, “You can always start with listening.”

 

Two days before he was due to fly to Switzerland with the team, he decided to go back to his flat to gather his things and mostly to get away from the worried look his mother kept shooting in his direction. He loved his family to pieces, but he needed some alone time. He was trying to decide when to face Mario, since he was a professional player and couldn’t miss training without Kloppo killing him. Also Mario was still in Ibiza, according to his Instagram feed (he had been a bit turned on by the wink selfie, not a story to tell his future children, eh mom? But goddamn Mario and his stupid handsome face why did he have to wink of all the things?), so Marco had decided to give him a call next thing in the morning and see if they could meet in Dortmund the day before the Supercup. Or something. He had spent the evening packing and singing Ed Sheeran (yes, he was obsessed) and exercising a bit in his training room. After eating some Caesar salad for dinner, he decided to try and get some sleep, since he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. He brushed his teeth and then collapsed on the bed in his underwear only, because he was too tired to bring himself to reach the drawer and fish some pyjama shorts. He closed his eyes, waiting for the sleep to come but he ended up tossing and turning in his bed. How unusual. He groaned, annoyed, and reached for his iPhone on the night stand to check the time. 00:43. He needed to sleep. Fuck. He kicked the sheets, frustrated and got up to open the window and let a bit of fresh night air enter the room, hissing a “Fuck you, Mario” under his breath, because of course he couldn’t get the younger boy out of his mind, and of course he was worrying about the next day. A very large number of ‘what ifs’ clouded his mind: what if Mario didn’t want to forgive him? What if Mario didn’t miss him anymore? What if Mario didn’t even want him as a friend anymore? What if? What if? What if? His dad always said that worrying was pointless, because a problem could either have a solution – and in that case why worry if you could spend your time solving the problem – or not have a solution – and in that other case worrying didn’t make it better. Which was fair enough. And Marco was a chill guy, Mitchell used to say he could very well pass for an Australian guy, he didn’t like worrying. But it wasn’t the first time Mario made him do things that were out of his comfort zone.

Somebody was knocking at his door. Marco checked the time again, just to make sure he got it right. 3:48. It was 3:48 and somebody was fucking knocking at his door. Not even ringing the doorbell. Fucking. Knocking. What the fuck? It couldn’t be any member of his family because they had a spare key in case of emergency. It was probably some stupid paparazzo or nosy supporter, everybody kind of knew where he lived, but they usually were decent enough not to show up at his door and not at fucking 3:48. 3:53 now. It had happened once or twice in the past, but never at that time of the night. And that also scared him, so no, he wasn’t getting out of his warm bed thank you very much. Only the pounding continued and Marco was getting angrier by the minute. He didn’t usually feel hate (he was really chill, not joking) but he was positively fuming right now. He got up without even putting anything on his underwear, determined to tell the motherfucker out his door to go away or he would have called the police, and went to the door. He opened it, already shouting “What the fuck do you think you’re doing??”, when he was faced with Mario. _Mario?_ He gaped at the shorter guy in front of him, who was hugging himself from the chill air of Dortmund.“Mario? What the hell are—” “I’ve driven all the way from Munich airport without stopping once, I’m barely breathing, I would appreciate a glass of water and I’m not going anywhere until we make this thing right, did you understand Marco Reus?” And he stepped inside the flat without looking back. He turned to face a shocked Marco, “And please, put some clothes on. I want to talk. First.”

Mario was showering and Marco was making some breakfast (he wasn’t sure it could be called breakfast at 4:30 in the morning, but enough with the details) and that was, well, _domestic_. They used to do it like that, back in the days. Marco got up first, woke Mario up with a kiss – occasionally a blowjob, if he felt like it – sent him to have a shower and then made breakfast. It was a bit different now, though. For once, Mario had showed up at this flat in the dead of the night, so no, definitely no blowjob awakening; secondly, Mario had asked to shower because he had rented a car as soon as he had gotten off the plane, so he was tired and smelled like death; thirdly, Marco was making breakfast for lack of better things to do. And because he was sure Mario was hungry, too. But Mario was always hungry. “Can I borrow something from you? My shirt smells like a 3 hours flight and a 6 hours drive.” Mario appeared on the doorstep of the kitchen, with nothing but a towel around his waist, his hair still wet and dripping. Which. Stop it right now. Marco focused on the eggs in the frying pan because a boner now was out of discussion, he cleared his throat, “Of course. Suit yourself. You remember where my bedroom is, right?” Mario laughed, “Unless you have changed something since Christmas?” he said and walked in the direction of the stairs with that stupid towel almost falling off, “I changed the sheets!” the older boy called from the kitchen. And. Lame, Marco Reus was the king of lame. He almost considered hitting himself with the pan and put an end to his misery. Only his former boyfriend/whatever he was still in love with was currently in his bedroom, looking for clean clothes and when he got downstairs they had to talk about their relationship. Everyday business, seriously. Marco put the eggs on two plates and fished some orange juice from the fridge, which was also the last item of beverage left in his house, and took a seat on one of the kitchen stools. He heard the door opening and Mario entered the room, with Marco’s favourite pair of sweatpants and his ‘Winter is Coming’ t-shirt (Pierre had called him Starko Reus for _weeks_ ), “I should have known you would have been a fan of the Stark family. They’re loyal just like you,” Mario said, attacking his eggs with a fork. Marco couldn’t help but look at him fondly, biting his lip to suppress a grin, “And Robb Stark is hot,” the blonde added, “Aye, you haven’t watched the end of season 3 yet, have you?” Mario looked up from his plate with a funny expression on his face, “No? I’m still at the end of season 2, why?” Marco answered. “Spoilers Marco, spoilers!” And Mario threw him a piece of egg, just because he was stupid like that. “I was starving, thank you for breakfast,” he added, and Marco smiled. He knew his boy so well.

“Do I want to know why I found Ilkay’s jersey in your drawer?” They were in the living room, Mario on one side of the couch and Marco on the other. They had been looking at each other in an awkward silence for the past five minutes, until Mario had broken the ice with that question. Marco smiled, the memory of that night still vivid in his mind, and Marco must have seen the affection on his face because his expression changed, looking almost hurt. “Uh, I don’t want to know for sure now,” he said, averting his eyes from Marco, “Shut up! We just watched the final together and got a bit drunk on vodka. He’s just a good friend. Great, even.” “Is he?” Mario looked visibly uncomfortable, “Yeah, he’s kind of the reason why I’m talking to you right now,” and Mario’s eyes widened in surprise, “That’s unexpected. Well, remind me to thank him then” Marco nodded and the silence fell again. It was awkward and silences had never been like this before, when they could spend hours just tangled up in each other without speaking a single word. And again, Mario was the one to break the silence. “I am sorry. For what I told you on that yacht. I know you weren’t jealous, I knew how you felt after the injury and it was stupid of me to say those things. I was just angry you wouldn’t talk to me and then you did and I wish you hadn’t.” Marco looked at his eyes and saw a mix of sorry and frustration clouding them, “I am sorry, too. I didn’t want to take this whole thing on Ann-Kathrin either. I hope things are fine between you two?” and it came out as more a question, one Marco didn’t really want an answer to. “We broke up, actually,” “I am sorry,” but their eyes linked and Marco didn’t feel so sorry, after all. Mario got a bit closer, “I miss you,” he said, his voice a bit shaky. “Why did you leave me then?” And here it was, the great question, the moment Marco had been avoiding since that day of July when Mario had packed his way out of Marco’s life. “I was scared. I was fucking terrified you were becoming more and more important in my life, more than my career, more than football itself.” He squeezed Marco’s arm, in a silent plea. But Marco wasn’t quite satisfied, “And was it that bad that you felt the need to leave altogether?” Marco groaned in frustration, “It was. When Bayern came into the picture, the first thing I thought was _‘Fuck it, I’m not leaving Marco’_. It didn’t even cross my mind to think about the fact that Pep Guardiola himself wanted me, that I could go and play alongside Ribery, Robben and Bastian, no. All that mattered to me was that I didn’t want to leave you, fuck Bayern Munich. And I got so scared it might compromise my career, that I run away.”  And Marco got it, he really did. He was a professional football player himself, he knew how it felt when football was everything that mattered in your life until something new, something you had never quite experienced suddenly changed everything. He felt relieved. Mario was different from him, younger and definitely more reckless, Marco could understand his fears. “You could have told me, you know. How you felt. I would have understood. I wouldn’t have minded you going to Munich all that much, we could have even made things work.” Marco said, they were only inches apart now and Mario’s hand was still on his arm, still gripping at him for dear life. Like he wasn’t planning on letting him go. “I was stupid. I am still stupid. I will be stupid for a long time, probably. I will make stupid decisions again and again and I need you to stop me. Can we make things work now? Please?” Mario moved his hand to caress Marco’s cheek, and Marco’s heart wouldn’t stop racing. And he felt all the words coming back to him, but he only needed three, “I love you.” And he closed the distance between them with a kiss that felt like ‘Here you are again’ and ‘Don’t you ever leave me’ and above all ‘I missed you’. Mario’s hands went immediately to Marco’s hair and the older boy sighed in the kiss. They parted, at last, only for lack of air in their lungs, on fire like every other part of their bodies who wasn’t touching the other. “Is that a yes?” Mario breathed on his neck, a faint layer of sweat covering his forehead. And Marco laughed so hard his cheeks hurt, “You must be very stupid if you think I’m letting you go again,” he said, kissing Mario on the temple. And Marco swore he heard Mario whisper “I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I am sucker for happy endings. Also my beautiful beta (betautiful?) asked for it and I live to please. Sigh. Hope you like it! There's going to be a little short epilogue - because domestic!Goetzeus is something I need to get out of my system - but it's mostly done! Thank you again for reading this poor attempt at writing! Love y'all muffins :)


	4. Chapter 4

Marco woke up to a foreign sense of peacefulness. And he didn’t need to go very far to understand why: the moment he tried to get off the bed, he realised he was unable to move his legs because somebody was practically sleeping on top of him. Somebody who was also drooling on his shoulder and mumbling nonsense in his sleep. And this somebody happened to be Mario. _His_ Mario. Things had gotten pretty heated pretty fast the night before, ending with clothes scattered everywhere on the floor of his bedroom and naked bodies rediscovering one another. It had been strange but incredibly familiar at the same time, like finding that old toy you used to play with everyday when you were a kid and it took you two minutes of fumbling to remember how to use it but once you got the hang of it you were fully back on track. But Marco was still amazed about how easy it had been to fall into their old rhythms, and waking up with Mario sprawled on top of him shouldn’t have made his heart swell, but it did anyway. But then again, feeling loved was a blessing and he never got used to it. “Let me get up, babe,” he said, trying to move Mario’s legs without much success, getting just an incoherent grunt in response. But he knew how to make him move, “Mario let me go make breakfast, yeah? I’ll make you pancakes?” After a couple of grunts more, he felt the weight lifting from him. He got up, not without kissing his boy’s forehead, and stretched a bit, his muscles sore from last night’s activities. “God, your ass is still one of the best things I’ve ever seen.” Mario said from the bed, suppressing a yawn, “Better than the Cristo Redentor?” Marco wondered, sliding into a pair of sweatpants, “The Cristo doesn’t make me horny, so yes, definitely better,” Marco laughed, because Mario was still the most ridiculous person on the planet and some things never changed. “Go get a shower, Gӧtze. You smell,” Marco said, heading towards the kitchen, that stupid smile still plastered on his face. He heard Mario’s voice calling from the bedroom, “I smell of your dry come, babe!” Some things truly never changed.

Marco heard the sound of a camera going off and he didn’t really need to look up to guess what was going on, “We need to discuss your Instagram addiction. It’s getting out of hand,” he said from his positions on Mario’s lap, who only snorted and kept taking selfies, asking for advices on the right filter to make, quoting here, _‘my cheekbones shine bright like diamonds’_. Marco was in love with an idiot. They were tangled up on his couch, the last Step Up movie playing on tv but they weren’t really paying attention, too busy catching up with each other’s life and trading embarrassing stories of their apart time (“I dreamt about you once in Brazil, and it wasn’t even hot or else, but I woke with a hard-on and André’s laughter will haunt me forever.” “You live for romanticism, don’t you?” “You want romanticism? Get Thomas as a boyfriend. He spent every goddamn night calling Mario after dinner when he thought nobody could hear him. It was disgu—” “Wait. Are we boyfriends now?” “Yes, you dumbass. I didn’t drive 6 hours just to fuck you and leave.” “ _I_ technically fucked _you_.” “Yeah, and it had been great.” ). After another couple of minutes of deciding if Valencia was indeed a better filter than Brannan, Mario pocketed his phone and levelled his face with Marco’s to look at him straight in the eyes, “You know what I miss?” And Marco didn’t trust the smirk that was forming on his lips, not at all, but he sighed heavily, “What Mario?” “Hearing you sing!” Which. No. Marco was a shy guy, okay? “I’m not singing.” And Mario pouted, damn Mario and damn his cute little pout. “C’mooon,” he said, batting his eyelashes like the idiot he was, “No. Forget about it.” But Marco was smiling fondly and Mario was smarter than he gave him credit for and he knew he had already won, “I drove all the way from Munich to Dortmund Marco! Six long, restless hours in my lonely, cold car—” “I am sure your car has air conditioning,” but Marco was full on laughing now. “Still. You owe me. We wouldn’t be here without me!” “But-” “I scored a goal for you on the World Cup Final, Marco Reus sing something to me!” And how could he say no? The memory of Mario running around the pitch with his jersey still made him shiver. “Okay okay. What do you want me to sing?” And Mario’s smile got so big and his eyes so bright and Marco loved him so so much, “There’s this song I’ve been obsessing over? It’s from Ed Sheeran’s new album and makes me think a lot about you. It’s called ‘ _One_ ’, do you know it?” And he probably didn’t get why Marco started laughing like a maniac, but when their lips collided, the song long forgotten, it probably didn’t matter anymore.

 

_All my senses come to life_

_While I’m stumbling home as drunk as I_

_Have ever been and I’ll never leave again_

_‘Cause you are the only one_

_And all my friends have gone to find_

_Another place to let their hearts collide_

_Just promise me you’ll never leave again_

_‘Cause you are the only one_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here you go! This is how I imagine them irl, so just humor me :) thank you to every single one of you who read this thing, to everyone who commented it or left kudos or bookmarked it! You're the best! I've had fun writing this and who knows I may write other things in the future! Last but not least, to /my/ Marco Reus, none of this would have happened without you! Love you x

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! 
> 
> (A minute of silence for you our Captain Philipp Lahm who just retired from international football I am so sad)


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